I was uber-stressed this morning. A test tomorrow, which I've got to cram like hell for...

So I took a Pramiracetam: it improves attention and memory, but that's also a problem...

Because I managed to run across an old picture of you I had forgotten to delete. And I made the sick mistake of lingering on it for just a second.

It was you, beautiful as ever, smiling into the camera as you held a Christmas gift you'd gotten for me in 07.

Before I knew what was happening, the tears were falling.

I'd forgotten the shrine I'd built for you, to you. It's a dark cave, a place where I stare at all the mistakes I made in the light of the perfect goodness you offered, where I cut myself emotionally for all the mistakes I've made.

Because that's all I've got left...this shrine of a desire to die, to just let go of it all because I've lost you. I don't want to be happy without you.

I've managed to become a recluse. Not much chance of meeting anyone else.

Dammit, I'm pathetic.

...At least I know it and Choose to be, for you. If I can't make this heart love you, at least I can kill it dead. And if I can't kill it dead, at least I can rip it to shreds over time.



I love you sweetie and I'm sorry I hurt you. I just wish I could find a way to forgive myself.

But forgiving myself would mean I was OK with being without you, and I haven't been able to make that true, no matter how hard I try.

No, I'd rather die.

nascence of a revived laceration

found a link to a picture of you i'd never seen today
tasted sweet nostalgic suspense
as i scrolled down awaiting merely to learn
new facts about you

awash with sudden surprise as i
see your smiling face staring out from among
a group of nondescripts
a shining beaming light of joy piercing my
morose melancholy
my meandering mediocrity
to remember a time when that smile was meant for me
to remember that somewhere in the past those moments still are

study it
let its new memory seep in
sweep through
draw out from me, probe, resurrect
all those cultivated
sadnesses of your loss lovely Tracy
Tracy Edelman
Tracy Lee Edelman
All for you

condemned to factical thrownness
I don't want to escape this body
addicted to
brain
addicted to
you

I know you're out there listening, Shmoo.

I can't listen to Muse without thinking of you.

I deleted too much but my hope will never be dead.

I'd rather hurt and remember than let my pain turn to apathy.

-Sn*ffy

sonnet to an unlost eden

unlost because so long as I condemn,
punish me through pain
through nursing
an annihilative thrill and hope
for my mistakes

so many

than maybe some tiny bit of
the love i had for you
might remain


I
it hurts and no one cares.

i know that now.

I don't think I even care anymore.

I love the idea of leaving. "To write is to take one's leave."

To write on the sky in blood shards scraps and sheathes unsheathed
to lose fuck it why try
i just want to

because she's gone
all she was

and all that could have been

this is worthless
i am worthless
you are worthless
i just want to fucking make it fit
but i can't

i'm condemned to a uselessly hopeless tragedy
because i don't want to lose my pain

"I didn't forget the pain. A pain that every surviving" hope now shares.


I pray that every day in every way
more and more and more
that my soul will ever more darken
at the loss that I nurse
the wound I reopen daily because
I miss you so much


I don't want anyone else
I don't want to want anyone else
I want to hurt
to suffer like you did
to miss you ever more
to hate myself for losing you

I want to die daily
to pick up this cross and suffer
i want to hurt


because it's all i have left of you.

Story Of The Eye

Bataille was seriously onto something.
Something important, useful, truthful, gripping, awesome.
Something about the relation between orgasm and death.


And so was Aldous Huxley in Island, about maithuna, the practice of withholding from orgasm.


That's all I can say.

Everything which follows this sentence is true.

Everything which precedes this sentence is false.

i stopped

caring what others thought about a month ago.

It's a dangerous but useful place to be in.

to begin, then, is always already to end

Michel Foucault was obsessed with...all his life...
Jack Sheppard let himself feel frustration, pain, emotion, but only in a controlled way...

something like a catharsis

the written word is a limited myth
(as this is)

to admit defeat
before the project that language sets before us
that linguistic existence Is

a rough inarticulate scream
the desire for annihilation
still cries within me
somewhere i've hidden
so that no one can locate its insanity
it's frustration with All and Everything
the limitedness of being

I want to die so badly
I'm tired of these hands and eyes
and the limits of the memes and genes
that compose this
me
Thing

Hume recognized the distinction
between is and ought.
There is no provable or demonstrable "ought."
If this fact filtered out into everyday society
rational persons might become selfless or selfish or habitual criminals.
Survival is no longer obligatory, nor is law or order or hope

I'm probably just a piecemeal composition of memes,
confused and unable to derive some sort of internal coherence
the kind necessary for the capital machines to process my labour-power
to turn me into just another piece of shit driven by the "obligation"
to trade labor for capital, feeding injustice...
not that "injustice" "ought" to compel my attention, my memory, my action
even were it shown to exist



There's an ignoble decentering within me
I can't hold on to the idea of any idea
or the hope of any hope
seizing my attention

because (too often, probably), when I think
I think the whole human race.
We can't ignore Auschwitz or the absurdists
or the insane waste of time that modern scholarship
probably is.

Nor can I for some reason extirpate the "ought" of my desire-towards poetry.

For shame.